


apparve Aurora dalle dita di rosa

by sentenza



Category: Gomorra - La Serie | Gomorrah (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Enzo, Alpha!Gennaro, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Grieving, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Internalized Sexism, Intersex, Italian Mafia, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega!Ciro, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Pregnancy Kink, also the Enzo/Ciro is barely there, graphic smut, so beware of choppy writing and strange wording, switching POV, translated to English
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentenza/pseuds/sentenza
Summary: Seventh episode of the third season. Enzo Sangueblù, after meeting with 'O Charmant and refusing to sell out Ciro in exchange for his late father's turf, goes to his mentor's hotel room at the crack of dawn. He is not the only one.
Relationships: Ciro Di Marzio/Gennaro "Genny" Savastano, Enzo Villa/Ciro Di Marzio
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	apparve Aurora dalle dita di rosa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evenseven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenseven/gifts).



> Might as well warn you, this thing almost turned into a threesome, with Enzo and Genny spit-roasting poor Ciro, the fandom bicycle. The only dialogue present in this fic is the canon one between Sangueblù and Ciro in episode 7 on season 3.  
> I tried some subtle worldbuilding for this ABO.... Aaaand I failed miserably. Just to clarify, omegas are intersexed, meaning they have fully working baby boxes. Also, did you know that if you find someone's natural smell good (and you are a woman and ovulating) it means your immune systems are compatible? No joke, this is science.

Almost dawn and still can't sleep, I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't stand being trapped between this four walls smelling of mildew and stale smoke any longer, my only comfort looking out the balcony door, through the mist of dusty curtains, to the bustling streets below.

The need to go outside and search has become like a parasite, digging and tunneling under my skin, running along nerves and tendons and burrowing deep in my entrails, to consume me bit by bit from the inside. But I _know_ I must not, I can not. It wasn't an option before and now even less so.

I light up another cigarette and let it burn out slowly between my fingers, one of the small gestures that still seem to appease my paranoia. I've learned a long time ago how cigarette smoke irritates the delicate mucous in you nose, making it harder for other, more intense smell to get through. Better to stink like an ashtray than to stink like a whore.

In the last days it has gotten more and more intense, a strong smell of rust joining the sage and saltwater from the first stages of my predicament. I haven't smelled this particular combination in so long it is actually jarring and alien to me. I've become so hyper-aware of my own scent that I have the impression that every passerby is about to turn their head up, toward my room. The very idea scary and exciting at the same time. And also incredibly painful, so much so it makes my head turn to give a guilty look at the creased picture stuck in the mirror frame. What a fucking joke am I!

I had hoped that, at my age, after having lost both my mate and my child, I would have been spared this further humiliation, but no such luck. As if the pain and disgust I feel every day at myself were not enough punishment.

I feel filthy. Damp. Yielding.

Like an overripe fruit, ready to fall from its branch.

I pull a drag and blow out the acre smoke from my nose, I used to pretend it was though guy posturing but reality is that it burns my nostrils, giving me some respite from the pungent smell permeating everything in this room.

The fact that I put myself in this situation with my own hands, is just more salt on a wound that has been festering and driving me mad for decades. It was my idea to insert myself in a group of young alphas, teeming with hormones and a desire to show off, not thinking my secondary gender would have constituted a problem. It had not been a problem for the past fifteen years but, for the past fifteen years I had had Deborah and, later, Maria Rita at my side. They had saved me, they had permitted me to reach this far.

The first years, after running from the orphanage, had been pretty hard, for me. Street life is not a game, especially for a young omega with nothing and no one to call his own, to rely on. And while now you can find some Planned Parenthood centers for an easy suppressant dose, in the early 90's Naples you could call yourself lucky if you managed to find a corner in some shithole condo with running water and an actual door, run by some sanctimonious Catholic association, to wait off your first heats.

Even though my “condition” had forced me to sharpen my mind, some unlucky draws had befall me as well in the beginning.

That's how I ended up in the system. A couple of beta bastards from downtown had decided to have some fun with me in a deserted back alley when, suddenly, Attilio had stumbled on us. I have no idea what pushed him to help me, that day, all I know is that one moment I couldn't breath and the next one, the bastard who thrusting down my throat, had a hole where his face used to be. It had been what I had done to that other retard trying to run with his pants still around his ankles that had convinced Atti' to introduce me to don Pietro. Shorty after that I had met Deborah, in six months we were married and in one year, after our baby girl had been born, my hormonal fluctuations had disappeared completely, gifting me with a peace I had never known in my twenty years of life.

I had heard of omega hormones settling after the birth of a child in the family, their body suppressing the hormonal cycle to protect the baby from the unforeseeable heat complications, but I had never dared to hope for something like that for me.

But now I've been thrown in to this hell once again. Maybe it's only fitting.

Someone knocks at my door and my heart skips a beat. I turn, slowly, trying to be silent and trying to keep the protective cloud of smoke around me when I put off the butt in the overflowing ashtray on the desk and get the 9 I keep in its drawer.

“Who is it?” I ask, getting to the door.

“It's me.”

Had I not recognized the voice, I would have still recognized the scent, it's thick and acrid with stale fear, but there's excitement as well, there. I waver for a moment, trying to make up my mind about letting him in or not. Enzo is younger than me, shorter, lighter, that's true but he is an alpha still and in my state, if he was to lose control, I don't know if I'd be able to hold onto mine. I guess the best tactic is acting like there's nothing wrong, like I've everything under control. I let him in and lower my gun.

“Get in... What you doing here?”

I see him hesitate, just for an instant, his nostrils flaring to search something under the cigarette stench. In the blink of an eye his wavering is gone and my bluff has payed off.

“You're no longer alone in hell. I got me a ticket myself.”

He says this adavacing toward the center of the room, eyes intense, burning with zeal and fury, so much so that I avert mine and turn to give him my side. He is agitated and talking to me with a desperate kind of sincerity, he wants me to believe him.

“What do you mean?”

I rest my damp palms on the dusty wooden surface in front of the mirror, my eyes fixed on the ruined picture of what was once my family. The temptation of getting nearer, of touching and letting myself be touched in return, is strong, but I have endured worse.

“I said no.”

“To what?”

“Ciro, I'm not into wishful thinking. I know everyone just mind their own fucking business... But, sometimes, you care about some people more than you care about stuff!”

“Could be... It's just, I've never seen that happen.”

He is offering me something tempting, enticing, a moment of respite from my self-imposed solitude. After the orphanage, I had never been really alone, I had always surrounded myself with people I knew I could manipulate, tie to me. Rosario, Deborah, the Savastanos... That's why that year in Bulgaria had been my punishment. A punishment that had left me starving, desperate even, making what Enzo was offering even more tempting. Uncomplicated affection, with none of the baggage someone from my old life would carry. Someone more violent, someone more alpha. Someone like Genny.

But Enzo? Enzo is easy.

“Me neither... until today. Today life made me a surprise, they offered me the world and I said no.”

He keeps advancing and, like that night in Sofia, it's his earnestness that attracts me. A promise of belonging, of home. Of union.

“And you know what the price was? They wanted your head.”

Ah, so it was either me or the world. And he choose me.

I lift my gaze to look at him, lips opening just a fraction more all that I concede to the sudden feeling of shock electrifying my body. I'd like to be able to say that I'm not touched and my reaction is nothing but a ruse, a finely crafted mask created to deceive him and ensnare him even more tightly in the web I've been weaving for months... But it's not.

It's all my hormones fault, it must be, if when he throws his arms around my neck in one of his usual bouts of spontaneous affection, holding me tightly, all I can do is stand stoically rigid for a time that feels infinite. The moment is wavering on a razor blade, while my hands rise imperceptibly to return his embrace and he turns his head towards me, burying his face against the warmth of my neck. I can feel him breath in, his chapped lips opening a fraction on my skin and his soft beard tickling my collarbones. My temperature skyrockets in shame when I feel the scalding wet rush between my legs and a soft rumbling coming from Enzo's throat that, were we not so close, would be indistinguishable from the traffic outside.

I'm steeling myself to push him away, after feeling something wet and hot graze against my jugular, when a low growl fills the hotel room, making Enzo disengage from me with a start, blue irises still eclipsed by his blown pupils. The morning light is still dim and the hallway beyond the door dark, but I can make out clearly the imposing figure filling the entryway.

Not hearing the door open has been an unforgivable mistake.

◉

I just got here and I already feel like killing something. To be precise, I'd like to grab that little bastard's head and beat him up until I make him spit all of his teeth out, it doesn't matter if his dirty paws no longer are around Ciro's neck.

I keep silent and advance toward the center of the cramped room, a dark glare fixed on Sangueblù, looking at me with wide, anxious eyes and arms still slightly raised, ready to fight or flight.

Ciro has retracted to a scarce meter from the kid, which is something, but not nearly enough to appease my sudden, burning rage. I can feel him watching me, his sideways looks surreptitious but with enough force that I can almost feel his voice inside my head telling me to keep my cool and to not fuck up, to not cave in our ally's skull and throw down the shitter all his hard work. As usual.

I make a beeline for Ciro, my eyes staying on Sangueblù the whole time. The nearer I get, the more I feel my shoulders tense and flex, he has that fucking nobody's stench all over him, I can smell it even under all the usual cigarette smoke and the smell of his heat.

The little bastard is quite perceptive, I'll give him that, seeing the way he's backing off toward the door, never showing me his back or flank. He is nervous and his pale eyes move on Ciro for a second, searching for guidance, silently asking him what he has to do.

Ciro clears his voice, tells me he was not expecting me and to Enzo not to worry, that he did good and that he may go, now. The kid hesitate but a second before following Ciro's orders. When I think I used to be just like that... ! Gets my blood boiling even more.

There's a moment of crackling tension when the two of us switch position, he slinking back to the still gaping door and me planting myself between Ciro and Sangueblù, right in the middle, like I'm trying to hide one to the sight of the other. The door closes with a slam and a tremulous sight from the man at my back.

I feel a fierce stab of irritation sizzle down my spine when he turns toward the balcony door, showing me his back, almost like he doesn't even want to look at me. Jesus! I know I pissed him off but I was never good at keeping my cool in this type of situations, he should have learned it by now.

Him being an omega has never been a problem, always being one of those open secrets that everyone knew but no one acknowledged, his admirable discretion almost a point of honor on the streets. This is probably the reason I feel so betrayed.

In my youth, his apparent lack of any kind of sexuality had always been heartbreakingly reassuring. There was no place for my fantasies and daydreams when I was faced with the flawless stonewall that was his front. The only time it came up, the few instances when some shit-head looser from another clan, that didn't know any better, made a snide remark, forcing me to crack some skulls and brake some arms. But now?

Is this what I get for running here in the middle of the night to warn him, the news of Enzo and the Charmant meeting an iron fist gripping my heart? Is this what I get for never acting on my desires for decades? Finding him all hot, entwined with some horny fucking nobody's kid he just met?

As if I did not know this is a one way way ticket to get my ass eliminated from this three unknowns equation. Call me old fashioned, call me naïve, but I believe that once an omega gives himself is forever, so what would have happened the next time he'd have to make a choice between Sangueblù and me?

I can't let this happen, not now, when we are finally in this together and so much is at stake. I'd do anything to keep him and if Enzo thinks he can beat me at this game I've been playing with Ciro since my balls dropped, well... Kid better start to dig his own grave.

I turn as well and walk to him, his back at my chest but not close enough to touch. I breath out heavily and I know he can feel it, hot and humid, at the back of his neck, it's obvious from the way a shiver runs down his spine and from his scent turning thicker. I've had it half-mast since I came in but his smell, so strong now I'm closer, turns it into a full blown erection. I beat it off thinking about him so much when I was a kid, that on my part it's almost a Pavlovian reaction at this point.

Only crossing an ocean and whacking a poor bastard into pieces had cured me of my blind infatuation, finally showing me what he was doing, making me smell it just to lead me around like a dog on a leash, and after that it had not took me long to understand how an alpha can have just the same power over an omega. I couldn't wait to turn that table on him.

The more I keep my silence, the more I feel his uneasiness rising, prompting him to hide his shaking hands in his pockets and turning his head just enough to show me his lovely profile, all plush lips and curly lashes. His voice holds an almost hysterical note when he starts his usual scolding, using rage to cover up his arousal and fear. I ignore him and get almost imperceptibly closer, just to wrack his nerves a little more and to keep up with this power play that has been going on for years. It's then when I smell Sangueblù's scent still clinging to his skin.

Is this what got him all revved up? That's making his voice and body tremble?

I wasn't lying when I told me I had never hated anyone the way I hate him, but now it's a whole new level. I bet had I not came when I did, right now he would be on all fours having that whelp jackrabbitting it up his ass. Bet that when that little rat told Ciro he had just refused everything Enzo's father had died for, just to save his skin, he was ready to spread his legs. Which omega wouldn't be? Which omega in his condition would be able to resist? And which better choice than an alpha like this, ready to give so much, to pass your first heat in years with?

Ciro would have had nothing more to do than letting himself be mounted, to have the young man in his clutches forever. Create a bond with which no one would have been able to interfere with. He had choose him.

I'm thinking about how many time the same person can brake your heart when I finally notice he has gone silent, he must have noticed I've not been listening to a single word he said or, perhaps, he just heard my teeth grinding together. Our eyes meet and it's like a switch has gone off in my brain, in an instant I have him crushed against the wall, my entire weight keeping him in place and my erection pushing against his soft ass. He is fighting me, but with words only, asking what the fuck do I think I'm doing, trying to look me in the eyes again, but he can't the way I've got my face pressed against the back of his head.

He his starting to struggle, so I encircle his wrists with my hand and press his fists over his own heaving chest, taking my time to let my nose run the valley behind his hear, his earring clicking gently on my bared teeth, and reach all the way to his jugular, where the smell that little asshole left behind is stronger. One swipe of my tongue and no trace of Enzo is left, with nothing more than a sigh from Ciro. The fact that I've started grinding against him barely register in my mind, completely focused as I am on his breathing, the intoxicating feeling of his chest struggling to expand in the cramped space between my body and the unforgiving wall. I've never felt him so close, so alive.

His voice trembles when he calls my name again.

He mentions Azzurra, my son, but this is different. He is different. They are my blood, the family I built for myself, but Ciro wasn't a choice, he had been inevitable, like destiny or fate. I wish I could explain this to him, but I already know it would all degenerate in sappy, sentimental babbles. I let my body speak for me. With every thrust I tell him how beautiful he is, with every bite through the cigarette-smelling fabric of his sweater how united we are, with my fingers creeping down his still closed pants, beyond his belt, how I desire him above everything else. We were made for each other, no doubt about that in my mind, he just needs some encouragement to see it my way.

The breath I didn't know I was holding leaves my chest, when the hand I stuck down his pants finds an erection. I wanna go deeper but the big gold watch around my wrist struggle to get through, scratching the soft skin of his belly making him grunt out in pain. My patience is running out, so I yank my hand out, undo his belt and zipper and dive my fingers back in, this time going well beyond dick, where his balls should be had he not been born an omega, and reach my goal.

I want, I _need_ , to know that even right now, with just me in this room, he is still turned on.

He's so wet that I'm sure his jeans are soaked through as well. My fingers slide smoothly to his entrance and stop in the thick juices they find there. My wrist hurts and the inner seam of his jeans is giving me a nasty carpet burn of the back of my hand but I keep it right there, the tip of my middle finger breaching him just barely. “Oh baby” is all I can think, listening to his rasping whines and following his hips movements getting increasingly noticeable and insistent.

He wants me just as much as I want him, this is what really matters, even if it's just because of a biological imperative.

Still keeping my hand motionless I join my index to the party, stretching his opening a tad more, getting ready to sink in properly. His motions are getting more desperate and I order him to tell me that he wants it, that he wants _me_ and not him. He scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head. Say it. Say it! Say that you choose me, that you were going to call me!

Exhausted he gives up, clings to the wall and tell me that yes, he _does_ want me.

I want him to beg, and ho does. I want him to swear his fealty to me, that there's only me in his life, and he does. I want him to tell me that Enzo is worth shit to him, that he chooses me. He does.

Avitabile thought he had taken everything from me, but he was wrong. No one can take Ciro from me, because he is mine and I am his. We belong to each other, forever. It is with a calm if broken voice that he tells me that, yes, he knows, turning his face toward me to finally lock eyes with mine. It's then that I give up and kiss him.

I can't say how much I have desired this soft, dark lips against mine. The hand I had moved over his chest, rises to caress his throat and cradle his jaw, guiding his mouth in a better position, where my tongue will be able to plunge deeper. My other hand is still on his crotch, this belongs to me, now. I know I'll forgive him anything.

◎

I am this far from starting to beg him, when Gennaro finally rips me from the wall and bends me over the desk under the mirror. With pants around my thighs and arms in his vice-like grip I can't control this switch in position, making my cheekbone land painfully on the desk top, empty beer bottles and cigarette butts rolling off on the tiled floor. It hurts but it does not matter, I'm already at that point where everything else takes the back seat and my brain goes into autopilot mode.

My insides contract tightly around something that isn't there, yet. I wish I could say that anyone wouldn't do, right now, but I'm really not so sure about that. Turning my head, I watch him fumble with his pants zip, just to immediately switch to the one on his hoodie, almost like he does not know what to take off first in the little time we seem to have.

He's nervous, it's plain to see, and this comforts me in a way I had not thought possible.

He ends up throwing his black sweatshirt on a nearby chair, remaining with a white tee stretched tight on his shoulder and arms. Before I know what I'm doing I feel the muscles in my back contract, trying to make me stand, bring my back in contact with his broad chest and just rub against him. I want his sweat on my skin. My pride is saved only by his heavy hand landing on the small of my back, keeping me bent at a ninety degree angle.

I close my eyes in frustration and when I open them back, I see his reflexion disappear from the mirror. Was I able to speak right now I would ask him why is he crouching behind me and, more pressingly, why do I still have my underwear on, but the feeling of his warm palms cradling my hips and that of his tongue running the stretch of wet fabric covering my sex, emptying my brain of anything that is not Gennaro and his mouth. I let out a tormented groan when I feel his mouth starting to suck on the saturated fabric, like he is trying to lap up every drop of the slick flowing out from me. A shiver shakes the length of my spine when his lips drop to the skin at the back of my thigh to chase the clear fluid that has been dripping down. I'm almost disturbed when he hooks his index through my sopping Y-front, moving the fabric aside, just to drag his face, from the bridge of his nose down to his stubbly chin, through the folds of my sex. What a fucking disgusting animal he is. Too bad I'm no better, judging by the noises of him mouthing me like an overripe peach is producing. The wet smacks interrupted only by his gravelly voice telling me I taste like seawater and milk.

It's when I realize I've started to grind myself back against his face that Gennaro, that absolute bastard, gets up with a grunt, slips his thumbs inside the elastic band at my waist and rolls down my slip, my own congealing slick cold against the feverish skin of my inner thigh. It's almost a shock when, instead of fucking around some more, he just sinks his cock balls-deep inside me, goosebumps making my hair stand up and my nipples harden against the smooth wood I'm lying on.

It's a tight fit but I've been ready for so long it does not really hurt, it's more like stretching muscles you have not used in a long time. I thought he would start to plow me hard the second he got inside but it ain't so. He takes his time, encircling my pelvis with his hands, one still damp with my slick, and looking down, where his flesh disappears inside mine. I have to avert my eyes, I really don't feel like watching him look at his cock slowly sliding in and out of my entrance, growing steadily bigger and wetter.

He is making me feel it proper, now, every centimeter of his meat making its way inside me. The slight curve to the left, the pulsing vein running from tip to balls, the little notch at his flared tip when he pulls it out entirely just to ram it back inside.

His rings bite my hips and his thumb move in small, strangely comforting circles, almost like he's trying to calm me just like he's doing with himself by taking deep breaths dotted with tremulous sighs.

This is getting too intimate, a tar-like feeling of shame starting to clog my airways. All this pleasure... I want it hard and fast, so violent I won't be able to think about the complete idiocy I'm doing.

I don't have a clear idea of what to say to make him move, but mentioning Enzo in enough to increase the rhythm of his thrusts to an almost punitive level. This is better.

The noise of wet, swollen skin slapping against wet, swollen skin is almost enough to cover the white noise inside my head. Unfortunately, not enough to cover the absolute filth he is spewing out, some real graphic details about my inner anatomy I can really do without. I don't need to know how the mouth of my cervix feels against his slit or the absolute perfect fit, like my womb is trying to suck out the cum from him. Like I want him to knock me up. Like I want for him to put a baby in me, to give me another baby, all the babies I want. So I'll no longer have to be sad. So we will have a connection in flash and blood forever, no matter what.

Right. As if a male omega of thirty-seven who had their cycle blocked for more then a decade could ever get pregnant.

What a sad relief.

Still there's a part of me sighing in pleasure and contentment, telling me that Gennaro is right, we really are made for each other. The size is just perfect and the way he smells... It makes my head spin. I had no idea that the knowledge that someone's immune systems is compatible with yours could be this arousing.

I would not mind lowering one hand to give myself a couple of strokes, but he is mounting me with such impetus that I have to hold onto the desk with both my hands. Not that I actually need to jerk myself off to cum, his knot is already starting to swell, bumping against something inside me that makes my toes curl. Something similar to that stab you feel at your salivary glands when you are starving and are suddenly presented with a feast. And, to tell the truth, this his how I feel. Like I'm starving.

Like I have been starving for years.

This is why I'd like to pick up the fallen ashtray from the floor and smash Gennaro in the face with that, when he suddenly stops and pulls out, taking a step back.

❂

The idea that this might be our one and only time together strikes me like lightning. I have fantasized so much about this moment that I have a million things I'd like to do. Sure, maybe give him the reaming of his life in front of the picture of his defunct wife and daughter didn't make it very high on that list, but if this is gonna be only chance, I want him to be looking me in the eyes when I'll knot him. I want to see him and I want him to see me.

I hear him cuss, his hands gripping the desk he is leaning on and making it bang against the wall. I let him have his strop while I finish undressing and walk toward the bed, there I sit and tell him to drop his pants. He is angry, flustered, but still he does what I told him, even if his legs tremble so much he has to lean onto the desk next to him, stick his index finger inside his pants, pooling at his ankles, and to the heel of his shoes, taking off everything in one go, one leg at a time.

He is making zero effort to turn this act into something seductive or sexy, but the slick mess running down his thighs is more than enough for me. His sweater is still on when I tell him to get here, which he does if still with a pout, and with careful hands I help him straddle me, the last of his clothes being removed by me. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to undress him.

I hold him tightly, pressing my temple against his sternum and searching one of his nipples with my mouth. I feel a sting of disappointment when I taste only skin and sweat. I shouldn't. I _really_ shouldn't. How would I explain it to Azzurra? She would have my dick for that and yet... Whatever, there's no reason worrying about something that is never gonna happen. Even if we wanted to. What's so bad about me play pretend just for today? Live my most treasured, shameful fantasy?

I keep sucking on his breast and he must know what is going on in my head - when has he ever not? - but true to his manipulative nature, he does not stop me. In fact, he starts caressing my hair, carding hair wax-sticky locks and scratching my scalp, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

Gentle but firm, I lower him onto my cock, leaving a trail of saliva that goes from his nipple to his shoulder. Using my hand I guide him up and down, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and when I add my upward thrusts to the mix he starts to moan, a line of little gasps interspersed with my name. I tell him he is enjoying it, that he has never felt more pleasure in his life than right here, right now, with me, and he nods ecstatically.

I'm dropping words like “yes” and “love” without even noticing, and I'm surprised he does not laugh, choosing instead to kiss me, so sweetly that I can do nothing but start fucking him harder. I'm almost there, every time I pull out a gush of warm slick lands on my lap, my knot isn't going to fit through still for long. It's hurting me and it's hurting him as well.

Grabbing his face in my hands I tell him to open his eyes, to look at me. He must see the man he belongs to, the man who's about to make him his. He must see that man is me. Even if for just one night already at the crack of dawn.

With one last powerful thrust I push myself completely inside and we are joined. His watery eyes spill over and his mouth opens like a flower when he comes, a spatter of clear fluid hitting my stomach and a staccato of rhythmic contraction swallowing my cock. I'm still cumming inside him when he collapses against me, damp and shaking, both inside and outside. He is completely abandoned in my arms and so I hold him, loving him more than I thought possible. We can't really move around a whole lot, he is heavy and I'm tired, but I kiss him where I can reach and while I use one arm to hold him around his waist, the other trails down to touch where I'm buried inside him. Minutes passe but his tremors do not die down, just like the tempo of his breathing, still uneven and short.

I call him, a gentle shake accompanying my words.

No answer.

My concern mounts while I maneuver him to take a look at his face. Ciro is as white as a sheet, completely unresponsive. I rise the hand I had between his legs and look at it, there's blood, bust just a bit, then I move to check his pulse at his wrist and, from there, down still to grab his hand. It's the left one, the one with the two wedding bands stacked together, now cold and damp just like the rest of his skin.

It's not an easy feat, with both of our weights holding it down, but I finally manage to slip the duvet from under my ass and use it to cover him. Have I done something wrong? It's not my first time with a male omega and sure as fuck he is no cherry, but still...

I'm ready to panic when, after the umpteenth shake he opens hazy, confused eyes. I ask him if he's alright and he nods slowly. My God, his teeth are chattering and I don't know what to do, if not hold him tighter, rocking back and forth in a sad attempt to comfort the both of us.

Lying back against the headboard to wait I can't help thinking about Pietro, my son, and how I miss him almost like the very air I breath. Too bad I'm pretty sure there couldn't be a less appropriate time to think about him, right now, cradling the man I just cheated his mother with in a seedy hotel room.

Whatever, pretty useless starting to moan about this stuff now, after a bout of furious fucking and my dick still hard inside him, Ciro still collapsed in my arms.

To be honest I don't really wanna know why he had this reaction, I wasn't born yesterday and I know how his life has been. I can very well imagine on my own.

If nothing else, the fear and anxiety helped some of the blood swelling my flesh flow out faster. In less than five minutes I'm able to slip out, even if with some difficulty and a little blood. He lets me lay him down on the mattress and I cover him with the duvet, taking the chance to caress his forehead and trace his eyebrow with my thumb, while he looks at me with eyes half closed.

Clearing his throat he tells me he's fine and I nod. Yeah, right... Fit as a fiddle. Especially considering how, when I make to rise from the bed, one of his hands shoot out to grab my wrist in a vice like grip. It's with a surprisingly clear voice that he asks me where I'm going and all I manage to squeeze out is to get a glass of water from the bathroom. For him. He is not thirsty, so I leave that be and go back at lying next to him. Just for a minute. Just for the time it takes him to fall asleep at my side. Just for the time it takes for the sun to rise and end our night.

Our one and only night.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to crap this out before l'Immortale hits the theatres, too bad I translated parts of this while watching Striptease with Demi Moore and now I won't be satisfied with nothing that's not gonna be Ciro dancing to Annie Lennox's Little Bird to support himself and a magically-still-alive Maria Rita. Why do I love crap and sleeze so much?


End file.
